Man does not weave this web of life. He is merely a strand of it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
When the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among the white men shall have become a myth, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe. The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people, or He would protect them.
Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun.